Cocktails in Chelsea. Nikki Moore

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      ‘You look lovely, Sof,’ Tori leaned close to whisper into her ear, ‘but you would look better if you stopped pulling at the dress constantly. Just try and own it.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Sofia murmured.

      It was good advice.

      Except.

      Except she felt awkward and out of place. It wasn’t her scene. Everyone was on show, all the little circles of people air-kissing and studiously not watching each other while totally watching each other, there to be seen and talked about. What did she know about dressing in luxury brands and living it up with the glitterati in the capital? Nothing.

      ‘Come on darling, don’t stand there gawping.’ Christie grabbed Sofia’s elbow, wrenching her from her thoughts and steering her around a couple of smooth looking guys in casually stylish jacket and jeans combos. ‘Let’s order some champagne. Despite being on the French Riviera at the moment, Mummy was so pleased you agreed to come that we simply have to make the most of it. She’ll be very upset if she thinks we’re not looking after you,’ Christie continued sharply, her narrowed blue eyes bright against her English rose complexion.

      Sofia nodded, letting the other girl lead her to a high, round table with black stools set around it, glad to sit down and take the weight off her feet. Trying to ignore the way the tight dress rode up her thighs, she glanced across at the assorted wall-mounted optics behind the bronze-tiled bar, smiling slightly. She guessed it wasn’t so bad here, because although hanging out with friends with cold beers on the beach was more her thing, she had a serious soft spot for cocktails. The colours, flavours and varieties were amazing and she loved watching barmen create dizzying concoctions. There was something ridiculously sexy about guys throwing and twirling bottles around in that confident, competent manner they had. Although that could be less to do with their skills and more to do with her long-time crush on Tom Cruise. The late 80’s film Cocktail, though dated, was one of her older sister Isobel’s favourites and they’d watched it a load of times as teens.

      She studied the embossed ivory drinks menu. The booklet was thick, the cocktail list vast; champagne based, gin based, rum based, vodka based, whisky based, exotic, with a twist and traditional. She’d have preferred to stay in tonight after this morning’s tiring, chilly coach trip to Victoria and the stuffy, harried tube journey from there to Chelsea, but the cocktails would definitely serve as compensation for having to leave the house

      Running a polished oval nail down the list of vodka cocktails, she frowned, feeling like her hands belonged to someone else. The sisters had insisted she get her nails done and she’d agreed out of courtesy, and she had to admit the French manicure with the light pink overlay was kind of pretty. It wasn’t a word she usually associated with herself. Not that she was complaining. She loved her life, the adrenaline thrill of all the outdoorsy stuff she was into, so if the result was that she came across as a bit of a tomboy and wasn’t one of those glam girls that men chased, so what? It did however mean that tonight was her chance to be something different, so she should really just try and enjoy it. Once she was home, it was back to good old Sofia, hanging out with the guys she designed skate-parks with and her surfing buddies.

      Anyway, what was the worst that could happen over the next few days of the Easter Bank Holiday weekend? She could take in a bit of lively, diverse springtime London - eat, drink and see the sights - and hopefully sneak off to watch a footie match. She’d heard Chelsea were playing a home game against Stoke City on Saturday afternoon at Stamford Bridge. She chewed her lip and looked over at the other two girls. It was no wonder she felt out of place here. Tori and Christie probably wouldn’t be caught dead at a footie match full of chanting, sweaty, beery men and cheering women. Unless they sat with all the WAGs then they’d probably be right at home. Or maybe she was being too quick to judge. What did she really know about their lives nowadays? It’d been years since they’d spent any real time together.

      She looked at the bar again. ‘Shall I go and get the drinks?’

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ Christie drawled, craning her head to look over Sofia’s shoulder at someone. ’It’s table service.’

      ‘Its fine,’ Sofia replied, smiling tightly, ‘I’m not too sure what I fancy so I’ll go and have a scope at the bar.’

      ‘Scope?’ Christie repeated, looking faintly horrified.

      ‘Christie.’ Tori chided in cultured tones, tucking an escaped strand of glossy chestnut hair behind a diamond-studded earlobe. ‘Be nice.’

      ‘Nice is so boring.’ Christie flapped a hand dismissively at her younger sister.

      Tori turned to Sofia, squeezing her upper arm. ‘Ignore her. If you want to go to the bar, do. You may as well order us a bottle of Moet and give them Mummy’s name while you’re there. We have a tab here.’

      ‘Okay, no probs,’ Sofia nodded, sliding off the stool.

      ‘Oh, Sofa?’ Christie’s voice cut through her. ‘Please don’t embarrass us.’

      Sofia heard Tori gasp her sister’s name. She closed her eyes, counting to five in her head as slowly as possible. Remember Mum. ‘Yes, Christie,’ she gritted, opening them again. ‘I’ll try.’ Really hard not to strangle you with your ice-blonde ponytail.

      Sofa. The childhood name she’d always hated. Whenever their families got together - biannual short breaks at a fabulous holiday home in St Ives - she’d always felt like the fat girl because the sisters were both so effortlessly, elegantly slim. The nickname referred to the couple of extra pounds she’d carried until her mid-teens, later lost through swimming in the sea every morning, pier to pier from Boscombe to Bournemouth.

      Clanking across the floorboards in her high heels, she let out a long, loud sigh as she reached the bar. Resting her elbows on the wooden surface, she leaned forward to study the bottles in orderly rows inside the glass, condensation-coated fridges.

      ‘Careful,’ a deep, mildly sarcastic voice rumbled in her ear, ‘or you’ll give them a show a few hours early.’

      Turning scarlet as she realised the ruddy dress had crept up at the back, she straightened, whipped her head around and opened her mouth to respond. But there wasn’t time to challenge the comment because its owner had already placed a tray of glasses on the bar and melted away. She caught a glimpse of a white shirt, tight black trousers and dark hair as she stared after him. She also clocked that he was tall. Very tall.

      Sofia gulped. He’d been out of order, there was no doubt about it, but still, what he’d said, how much had people seen? Had she actually flashed her tiny pink knickers at the whole place? Fleeing to the toilets, she spent a few minutes trying out different poses in front of the full-length mirror before coming to the conclusion that although the dress was quite short, her knickers probably hadn’t had an outing. ‘Thank god.’ She exhaled, running both hands under the cold tap to get rid of her momentary fluster.

      Returning to the bar, she waved at the staff member who was stacking glasses on a shelf. ‘A bottle of Moet please, and two glasses.’ What was she doing? Why had her voice come out all cut-glass? It was like being here worked like osmosis, absorbing the traits of the people around her. Or maybe it was Christie’s comment about embarrassing them. Yeah, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to be someone else for this visit. She grinned. High-society Sofia, quaffing champagne and living the good life.

      ‘Yes, of course.’ The barman’s smile was fleeting as he turned to glance at her, and the coolness in his eyes was baffling. It was the guy СКАЧАТЬ